Childhood's End
by reading-is-in
Summary: Dean  19  and Sam  14  go undercover to investigate what appears to be a revenant in a children's home. Loosely based on the plot of El Orfanato   2007  , which if you haven't seen, do. Really, do.
1. Chapter 1

1.

"Well, this is gonna be a laugh a minute," Dean said gloomily, flopping back on his bunk and casting a doleful eye at Sam, who was busily packing.

"You're just mad because you have to pretend to be sixteen again," Sam said absently, considering a book of occult rites and discarding it reluctantly.

"Don't forget my shaving cream again," Dean said.

"What do I look like, your slave?"

What do _I_ look like, a teenager?" Dean protested, sitting up and holding his hands to his face dramatically.

"Eighteen _is_ a teenager Dean," Sam rolled his eyes. "Besides, I'm sure they'll be totally convinced by your twelve-year-old personality."

"Nineteen in January. So what are you all psyched up about?" Dean immediately regretted asking: it was just as well _not_to remind Sam that he usually hated hunts now.

"Well," Sam frowned, sniffing a t-shirt and stuffing it into his bag. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not looking forward to the whole children's home part. But if anyone deserves a break in life, it's kids like them. Seems we could do some real good here, y'know? The last thing they need to be dealing with is a revenant."

"All hunts do real good!" Dean objected. Sam raised an eyebrow and gave him a dour look – it was true, the last month hadn't been the most rewarding. They'd exorcised a harmless a ghost and faced the wrath of a tourist trap proprietor for 'scaring away the customers' with their 'occult gibberish', before Dad had left them to take out a kelpie that, as Sam had objected, hadn't yet harmed anyone so far as they knew.

"Two drownings in a year," Dad had refuted him.

"So? It's a small college town, they were probably wasted and coming home in the dark, and they fell in! You don't know it was the kelpie!"

"Don't have to know," Dad shrugged. "If it hasn't drowned someone yet, it will soon."

He came home three days later, unscathed and with one more kill on the long list to his name, and an article about a disappearing at St. Francis's Children's Home, Fergus County, Montana. The missing kid was fifteen, same as Sam, but the article said she had 'moderately severe learning difficulties' and was 'likely to trust a potential abductor'.

"That's sad," Dean said. "But it looks like one for the cops, not us. Plus this article is three months old."

"That's not all," Dad said. "Got a call on my cell about four hours ago. Bobby gave her the number. Kid's mother works at the home. She saw some stuff, round the time the kid went missing, all signs point to a revenant. Course she thought she was going crazy." A grim, sad look passed across his face, gone as quickly as it came. "But the cops got nothing, and she's convinced of what she saw. So she started exploring…other options."

Dean nodded. He was enthusiastic until Dad revealed the plan for him and Sam to go undercover at the home, Dean shaving two years off his age to meet the requirements for residential stay.

"Still don't get why I couldn't have been like, a janitor or something," he complained now.

"Yeah you do. Resident gets you better access to everything. Ms. Harper can't be around all the time to make sure we're allowed places."

"It will be cool to have a man on the inside," Dean admitted. "Or chick, as it were."

"She's like forty, Dean," Sam wrinkled his nose as Dean's use of the slang.

"Speaking of women…." Dean looked longingly out the window to where the Impala sat perfectly parked and gleaming in the cold winter sunlight. "I have to be apart from my baby. It's the first time since I had her."

"I'm sure Dad remembers how to keep her going," Sam said dryly. "Besides, it might not be for long. More incentive to solve the case fast." With an effort, he zipped his bag closed. "Now come on, pack. You don't wanna be apart from your deodorant as well, do you? Cos dude, I still have to share a room with you, and…"

Dean grinned. It was somewhat insulting, sure, pretending to be a kid, but it was good to see Sammy happy to work again. Well, he thought with an internal snort: for once, he's got a good reason to play the neglected, put-upon teenager. And hey, Dean could act. All part of the job description. For the first time in a long while, he felt he and Sam were a team.

If Sam had been expecting a Gothic, sprawling house crusted with creeping ivy, St. Francis's Children's Home was a disappointment. It resembled, if anything, a small school: a large redbrick building and a couple of smaller ones, set in a tarmac yard with a swingset and a couple of basketball hoops. No-one was in the yard, but when they drove up to the main gates and Dad pressed the buzzer for admittance, a woman's voice answered immediately.

"This is uh, Carter Briggs, Child Protective Services," said Dad, and Sam bit his lip to keep from laughing. "I have an appointment with-"

"Yes," said the woman. "Please come in – the car park is at the back, I'll meet you there."

Lori Harper was a handsome middle-aged woman with the gaunt, drawn look of a person who'd aged a great deal in a short time. She was almost as tall as Dad, standing up, and her long thin fingers wrapped spider-like around his hand when they shook.

"Mr. Winchester," she said. "And these must be the boys."

"We'd uh, prefer to use psedonyms at all times," Dad said, not harshly, but leaving no room for disagreement. Harper frowned slightly, but said,

"Of course."

"I'll stick with Briggs, and the boys are Jack and Thomas Martinson," he nodded at Sam and Dean respectively.

"Right this way." She led them out of the car park and into the main red building by a side door. Sam looked up at the windows, curious for his first glimpse of a resident, but could catch nothing more than the flicker of a profile in passing. Harper showed them into the living room of her modest suite:

"I live on the premises," she explained. "It was just me and Melinda, you see."

"That's your daughter?" John nodded to a photograph on the mantelpiece. It was Harper, smiling and fuller-faced, her eyes alight with a happiness vanished now. She was posing with her arm around a young girl, who was smiling too, but with something a little distant about her expression.

"Yes," said Harper.

"She looks nothing like you," said Dean, and Sam winced at the usual lack of tact. It was true though: Harper was tall, dark blonde, turning grey now, with a prominent jaw and high cheekbones, pale skin and light hazel eyes. The girl in the photo was petite, with dark curly hair and round wide-set dark brown eyes.

"She's adopted," said Harper a little sharply.

"Do you know the birth parents?" Dad asked.

"Does that matter?"

"It might."

"All I know is from official records," Harper said. "They're very bare, but I'll find you a copy of them. It's not a terrible story, as these things go – her biological mother was very young and couldn't look after her, no father on record. I adopted her as a small baby." Her lips tightened momentarily, grief clear, but she mastered herself. "Please sit down. I have coffee in the pot."

"Of course, they all think I'm crazy at work," she confided once they'd settled. "But they haven't the heart to fire me, I suppose, and I'd have nowhere else to go. Poor grieving Lori. I just don't talk about it anymore," she added: "But I don't believe it any less."

"You're not crazy, Ms. Harper," Dad said firmly. "Believe me – whatever people say - you're not."

She regarded him through tired eyes, and her mouth twitched with understanding. Neither asked, but the adults seemed to communicate silently for a long moment. Sam twitched uncomfortably and Dean occupied himself with his coffee mug.

"Now if you wouldn't mind," Dad took out his journal and a fresh sheet of paper, "Tell us everything you saw again, from the start. No matter how strange or impossible it seems. Don't leave anything out."

Harper looked up from regarding her hands on her coffee mug. "Four months ago, if you'd told me I'd be saying this, I'd have called the Home psychiatrist," she admitted. "But the more time goes on, the more certain I am. I understand you deal with – this sort of thing – in a regular basis." She shook her head, as though she couldn't believe what she was saying. "Mr. Winch – Briggs," she corrected herself, and sighed. "I think I saw a ghost."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

"Melinda has moderate non-specific learning difficulties," said Harper, and put her mug down. "Her developmental age is six to seven years, and the doctors think she's unlikely to progress further. She is a sweet, generous and trusting girl, but she's always had difficulty…making friends here."

Dad gestured for her to go on.

"So, when she started telling about her new 'friends'," Harper sighed, "I didn't think too much of it. Lots of children have imaginary companions. She would talk about James, and Mary, and Peter and Louise – there are no children by those names here," she added.

Sam filed the information away mentally.

"When did this start?" Dad asked.

"About six months ago," said Harper. "Shortly after we moved here."

"Then what happened?"

"The day Melinda-" Harper drew in a breath. "The day my daughter disappeared, we were holding a garden party for the children. I was rather stressed, very busy, and Melinda was misbehaving – she wouldn't come out of her room, or get dressed for the party. She became quite angry when I tried to make her come, insisted she had something to show me."

"What?" Dean leaned forwards, unable to help to himself. Dad shot him a look but said nothing.

"_Peter's little house._" Harper pronounced the words with a kind of helpless confusion. "What could that _mean_, do you think, 'Peter's little house'?"

"We don't know ma'am," said Dean, all professional now. "But we'll find out." Sam knew he wanted to say, 'we'll get your daughter back', but that wasn't something they could promise.

"What happened then?" John asked.

"I- I'm afraid I lost my temper," Harper admitted. "I shouted at her. Told her to stay in her room until she could behave herself, and went out to supervise the party. I could see her window," she added, and Sam considered the irony of someone else trying to convince John Winchester she was a good parent. Harper drew her breath. "Some of the younger children had dressed up," Harper said. "Facepaint and things. As I was putting a plate of sandwiches on the table, I looked up, and a little boy in a clown mask was staring at me. Just standing, staring. His clothes were - different, old fashioned, neat little grey trousers and patent shoes. I didn't know who he was, and I didn't remember any of the children dressing up as a clown, so I said, hello! But he just…stood there." She shuddered. "The strangest sensation came over me. I felt cold. And then -…"

"And then?" John prompted.

"I could've sworn – it's so crazy, but I could've sworn that the child _flickered_, like – like a ghost would!" She gave a despairing little laugh. "I know how it sounds."

"Not to us," Dad said simply.

"Well…I rubbed my eyes, blink, and when I looked back, he was gone. I said to Grace – she's my co-worker, I said, 'Who's dressed up as a clown?' and she said, 'What?', and I said, 'Who's the little boy in the clown mask?' and she gave me the strangest look. She looked around and said, 'There _is_ no little boy in a clown mask."

Harper paused. The memories that passed over her face were those of a person haunted.

"Suddenly I had to check on Melinda. I ran straight to her room. She was gone, and nothing was out of place. Nothing disturbed. This is a secure premises, Mr. Wi – Briggs," she said firmly, raising her eyes to meet his. "All the main doors have combination locks, and then this suite opens by key. No-one could get in through the main gates without permission, leave alone my private residence. There is no way that someone without authorization could have gotten to Melinda." She spread her hands. "There's just no way."

"No human," Dad said evenly.

"Everyone at the party was interviewed," Harper said quietly. "_No-one_ remembers a little boy in a clown mask. No-one saw him except me. We are specially trained to keep track of everyone in large groups of children. How could it be that no-one except me saw him?"

"Ghosts can choose whom they manifest to," Dad said, skimming the notes he'd made.

"You – you've seen a ghost?"

"More than one," said Dad.

"What does it want? What does it want with us, with my daughter?"

"That depends," Dad said. "Ghosts want different things. Some don't even know what they want, but they're not at peace. Is there anything else you can tell us about the disappearance?"

"Nothing," Harper said. "I'll get you a copy of Melinda's files, and then you'll know all that I do."

"Best give it to Dean," Dad said.

"Oh!" Harper said, her eyes going to Dean and back again. "Well yes - alright."

"In that case," said Dean, standing up all business, his complaints about the case forgotten, "Can we see Melinda's bedroom?"

Harper nodded and stood up too, leading them through a tiny kitchen to a neat single room decorated in pink. It looked like the bedroom of a young child: on the bed was a fluffy teddy, and dolls and picture books sat neat if a little dusty on the white shelves.

"I haven't touched anything," Harper said.

"Good," said Dad, but the room yielded nothing to visual inspection or EMF readings.

"Doesn't mean there wasn't a ghost here," Dean said. "Four months is more than long enough for EMF to dissipate."

"How old did you saw you were again?" Harper asked him.

"Eighteen," Dean admitted. "Uh, I'll shave everyday."

"No it's not that," Harper shook her head. "It's just….your life is quite unusual."

"You can say that again," Sam snorted. Dad gave him a sharp look but Harper just considered him.

"And you're fourteen….Jack, the same age as my daughter."

"Yes Ma'am."

"Lori," she said. "Though in front of the other children, you'd better call me Ms. Harper."  
>When the bedroom had been exhausted, Dad shook Lori's hand, and said, "Well Ma'am, at this point the best I can do is leave the boys to it. I don't suppose management would take too kindly to me wandering around the place." He looked almost rueful for a second – even in the borrowed suit, the scarred and badly-shaven 6ft hunter looked like anything but a child services professional.<p>

"Yes," Lori said, still looking a little shell-shocked. "In that case, I'll show – Jack and Thomas to their room."

"Call me Tom," said Dean, with the first hint of his trademark grin since arriving at St. Francis's. Dad left, and to Sam's surprise, the rumble of the Impala's engine leaving the car park left him vaguely disturbed. He'd been left with Dean plenty of times, and enjoyed it, but this was the first time they'd been left together _on a hunt_.This was them versus at least one psycho spirit: a psycho spirit with a penchant for clown masks. Sam repressed a shudder, and sincerely hoped that Dean had forgotten how once, years before he'd learned of the supernatural, clowns and clown-masks were Sam's greatest object of fear. He peered into every doorway as Lori led them down a wide wood-floor corridor – he glimpsed what looked like a dining room, or canteen, and a room with a battered couch where a few kids in their early teens were playing a video game on a Sega console. Dean looked a little impressed despite himself.

"School's out for Christmas," Lori noted. "Hence the mild chaos."

Horror dawned on Dean's face, and he shot a look to Sam that clearly said, _'We finish this before the end of the holidays.'_

Their room, though small, was much nicer than many a motel they'd stayed in:

"I call top bunk!" said Dean immediately, when they deposited their bags.

"Oh yeah," said Sam dryly, "They're gonna have _no_ trouble believing you're a kid." It wasn't actually fair – Dean had 'called top bunk', when the situation warranted, ever since Sam had fallen out of a top bunk aged eight, and cracked his head on the floor, requiring his first-ever home stitches before he'd even been on a hunt to sit and wait in the car.

"Aren't we too big?" Sam asked dubiously. "Won't we like, break it?"

"They have bunk beds in the military, dumbass." As if to prove his point, Dean swung his bag up to the top bed and pulled himself up. "Ah, luxury."

Sam rolled his eyes and began to unpack his own things. Beds aside, the room had a set of drawers, a wardrobe, and even a bedside lamp that admittedly had to sit on the floor due to the lack of a table. Lori had left, saying she'd leave them to get settled in and call them soon for dinner.

"Hey Dean?" Sam said, lying back and staring at the springs above him.

"What?"

"You think there's any chance Melinda's still alive?"

There was a long pause, and the springs squeaked as Dean changed position.

"There's always a chance," he said, and drew a breath as though he was going to say something else, but cut himself off into silence.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Dinner was taken in the big canteen, and Dean watched the other kids file in with subtle interest. He counted twelve girls and eleven boys ranging from toddlers to teens – they sat roughly according to age group, with the staff congregating more closely around the younger ones. An older boy in a torn jean jacket, who obviously figured himself as a tough guy, gave Dean a derisory up-and-down, which Dean returned with his most shit-eating grin and an internal eye-roll. 'Like to see how tough the little punk would be going one-on-one with a ghoul.'

This whole place gave him the creeps, to be frank, and not just because of the haunting. It was all too close to the bone – one call to Child Services placed at the right time, one over-attentive teacher, and he and Sammy could've found themselves in a place like this – or even worse, separate places. He would bust out, obviously, find Sam and Dad – but their faces would be on the record then, people trying to track them down, and wouldn't that be one more complication in their lives they could do without.

They got food high-school style from a serving counter: meatloaf or a veggie burger, mashed potatoes and tinned peas. All in all, they'd had far worse and gone to bed on much less: there was even a little boat of watery gravy of the kind you made up from mix, and the last time they'd had that stuff had been Thanksgiving at Bobby's place. Dean smiled at the memory. He half-wanted to take Sam and sit as far away from everyone as possible, but they had a job to do, and he was nothing if not a professional.

"Newbies," said the tough guy, nodding coolly as they went to sit with the teenagers. A staff member in his forties was nearby, but not on top of them, keeping watch on the little group from the corner of his eye. Dean snorted silently at the notion that the skinny, bookish looking little dude in the glasses was gonna protect them from anything (though skinny and bookish didn't necessarily make a wimp, he acknowledged to himself. 'Look at Sammy').

"Tommy Martinson," Dean said as he put his tray down. "This here's m'brother Jack."

"Leroy," said the tough guy, and Dean just knew he wanted to add, 'I run things around here'.

"I'm Ella," said a pretty red-headed girl, smiling at Dean open appreciation and moving over to make more room for him to sit near her. "Welcome to St. Francis's."

"Yeah right," said a second boy dryly. "One big party here."

"It doesn't seem so bad," Sam spoke up.

"You just got here," the boy returned. "Give it a week."

"What's so wrong with it?" Dean asked casually. He took a bite of his food and appreciated the taste of something he hadn't personally microwaved.

"Eh, just same old same old," Ella said. "It's a Home same as any other. Where'd you come from?"

"This is our first," Dean said. Best to stick to the story. A moment of silence fell over the table then, and one of the girls said,

"Oh. Sorry."

"Like I said, it doesn't seem so bad," Sam said. "Ms. Harper's nice."

"She's batshit," said Leroy and Ella hit him.

"Shut up. It's pretty horrible."

"Her kid got abducted," said the other girl, a pushing her food around. "From here. Isn't that freaky?"

"Really?" Sam did the wide-eyed innocent. "That's awful!"

"Yeah it is. I'm Kayla, by the way." Kayla was one of the younger at the table, maybe twelve or thirteen, a Black girl with striking blue eyes and a matter-of-fact manner. "And she was…you know…" Kayla gestured to her head.

"A retard," Leroy said.

"You're a dick, Leroy," Ella said.

"You love it, babe."

"Do they know who did it?" Sam asked.

"No," Kayla said. "Man, this meatloaf is worse than the last time. What they imakin/i it from?"

Leroy raised his eyebrows. "Soylent Green," he drawled, and Sam caught Dean's eye with a flicker of a question and more than a little disgust. Dean shook his head very slightly – if there had been any more disappearances in the area, they'd have heard about it.

True to her word, after dinner, Harper took them into the office and provided them with photocopies of Melinda's file. They were introduced to some of the other staff: nerdy guy was called Dave ('yeah, he looks like a Dave', Dean thought) and the manager on duty was an older woman called Patience. The office was large, with separate partitions for each worker, but the clutter everywhere made it seem smaller. Harper led them to her private desk, strewn with papers, coffee cups and gradually encroaching on the keyboard of an old PC, and watched anxiously as they leafed through the file together. She was right – there was little in it.

"We'll need to find as much information as we can about this person," Sam said in a low voice, underlining the mother's name with his finger. "Starting with if she's still alive. We also need all the history you have on this place – when it was built, who's lived here, and especially any deaths on the property."

"Your best bet would be the local library," Harper said: "It's opens early, around eight, and closes at five on weekdays."

"We can go alone?"

"This isn't a prison," said Harper, with the first hint of a smile they'd seen since gotten there. Dean suddenly saw how she could've been that other woman once – the happy woman in the picture. "You'll have to sign out and in again, but as long as you're not in school or a mandatory home activity, you can come and go as you please until curfew. That's seven p.m. for fourteen year-olds," she added to Sam.

Dean enjoyed Sam's double-take, even as he said, "Yeah…that's gonna be a problem." Keeping his voice low, even though the rest of the staff seemed to have left the room, he asked: "Do you have some kind of policy about kids needing to be in bed at a time or whatever? Cos a lot of the stuff we'll need to take care of happens at night. In fact the first thing we're gonna do is scope the place around midnight."

Harper's mouth thinned. "It will be difficult. When I'm not on duty. But you must have some practice in…sneaking around?" she finished a little helplessly.

"Oh yeah. This one's a regular criminal," Dean grinned and messed Sam's hair up. Sam scowled and attempted to fix it, fruitlessly.

"Well…alright then." Harper looked uncomfortable. "Uh, for your reference, here's a copy of the home rules, mealtimes and such. So that you can at least look like you're trying to keep them."

"Thanks," said Dean, glanced at the sheet of paper and stuffed it in his pocket.

"Seven p.m.?" Sam asked incredulously as they sorted their weapons and flashlights. "Every _day_? It was close to twelve - the night warden had come round a couple of hours previously, telling everyone it was lights-out, and Sam and Dean had pretended to be asleep already. Outside, the grounds were bathed purple black, the cold hard of December stars lighting only the mist around them.

"Our lives lookin better all of a sudden Sammy?" Dean teased. "Think about it – while most kids are doing their homework and eating pot roast you're out kicking evil ass."

"Evil _ass_?" Sam looked dubious.

"Shut up, you know what I mean." Dean didn't miss the tiny smile Sam tried hard to repress. "Salt loaded?"

"Yes."

"Iron blade?"

"Of course."

"Are the batteries good in your flashlight?"

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean was trying not to think about it, but now they were actually getting down to business, he was starting to feel a tiny bit nervous. Not about the ghost – hell, he'd ganked more ghosts than these kids had had meatloaf dinners – but the fact he was entirely responsible for Sam on this hunt. He was used to taking care of Sam – that was what he did – but in dealing with the supernatural, Dad had always been there with a deadly aim and another body to get between Sammy and danger if it came to that. It was just – good to know.

Well, he'd just have to be extra cautious. Two steps ahead of the game. They zipped up their backpacks in tandem, and Dean silently opened on the door into the darkened corridor.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Sam kept his footsteps light and the beam of his flashlight turned down. The other doors on their corridor were boys' bedrooms, and the room on the end was a large dormitory where the little kids slept all together. The corridor leading away on the opposite side, parallel to their own, was the older girls' wing. There wasn't much they could do about the bedrooms except wave the EMF reader in front of the door, although Dean suggested that Sam could slip in, and if caught,

"You could say were lost and had a nightmare."

Sam flipped him off.

"Look through the keyholes?" Dean suggested.

"Ew."

"It's professional!" Dean objected.

"It's skeevy. And will _definitely_ get us kicked out."

"You got a better idea?"

"Get Ella to invite you back to her place and scope out the girls' wing then. At least you'll be invited."  
>Dean appeared to consider that.<p>

"And find out how old she is first!"

"Such a buzzkill. Jeez."

They ducked past the night lounge, where the warden on duty, back turned to them, was watching a _Happy Days_ on a black-and-white TV set. Sam didn't get a good look at the warden, just a glimpse of a silhouette, but he or she didn't move as they and slipped silently past and down to the lower corridor. The TV room and the canteen were in darkness. They waved the EMF reader around and the little static line flickered and jumped.

"Yeah, there's something unnatural here," Dean said quietly. "It's dull though. Not very strong."

"Strong enough to kidnap or kill someone," Sam said.

"Maybe."

Sam gave him a sharp look.

"We don't know the girl didn't go with it on purpose. She was talking about her friends, right?"  
>Sam paused and a shiver ran up his back. That was – just creepy.<p>

The EMF frequency increased slightly as they headed to the bottom of the corridor. Beyond was the school for the little kids – it was locked, but the lock was a piece of crap, and Sam set to work on picking it while Dean stood guard and half-watched him.

"Said you were a regular criminal," he remarked.

"Just applying what you taught me."

"Yeah, nice job on that."

The school was like a cross between an arts-and-crafts room and a kindergarten. A big wooden table occupied the center, and someone had left out a set of fingerpaints. There was a sink in one corner and a mat in the other. Drawers painted in faded colours, labelled 'paper', 'crayons and pencils', and 'arts'. A couple of shelves of kids' books. A second locked door labelled 'Basement: Laundry' brought them to the far end of the Home.

Somewhere out in the corridor, a door opened and closed.

"Shit, night warden," said Dean.

"We can finish," said Sam as the footsteps faded away, heading back in the other direction. "You look here, I'll just  
>go on down to the basement."<p>

"No, _you_ stay here and _I'll_check the basement. Take a look around, and if anyone comes in, hide."

Sam repressed a comment about how he wasn't an amateur, and Dean picked the lock in half his time before disappearing through the door to the basement. Sam could hear the squeak-tread of the night warden climbing the stairs again, and hoped he or she wasn't going to check on the sleepers. He let his flashlight roam over the room, jumping slightly when it caught the edge of a crudely-made lion painting: a circus-display by small children's hands covered a third of the near wall. He ran his light over the names on the little lockers: Rachel. Damon. Oliver. Each was written by an adult first, with a more or less legible attempt to copy underneath by the child.

The flash of the clown mask in the beam of his torch almost made him scream, and drop it.

He immediately jerked the light back to the place it had hung in the air, three or four foot above the ground, but the air was empty. Sam rolled the light all around, hand sliding into his jeans pocket to grip his gun, loaded with rocksalt. The sensible thing to do now would be to shout for his brother, but the thing was gone, and if he yelled he would have the night warden down on them seconds.

He could've imagined it. It had only been the briefest fragment of a second, and Sam had to admit that clowns were the one thing that could render him less than rational. But the image of it was clear in his mind – faded white like paper maché, with red lips, and bold rings of blue around the eyes that could only be seen as slits.

Gripping his gun in one hand and his torch in the other, he edged towards the spot where he had glimpsed the clown. There was nothing there – just the plain wall, but was it his imagination, or was the wood a little darker here, a little – newer looking? Sam ran one hand over it, searching for a crack, something that would indicate the edge of a panel –

"What are you doing here?"

Barely supressing a yelp, he spun around, heart hammering in his chest. An old woman was standing behind him, eyes narrowed and lips pursed in a frown. She wore an old fashioned flowered dress, thick coke-bottle glasses, and a badge reading, 'STAFF'.

"You should be in bed," she told him.

Sam breathed out. The night warden. Just the night warden.

"And what is that?" the old woman's eyes went to the gun Sam had hastily stuffed in the back of his jeans. "Give it to me, young man."

"Um it's just…" Sam stalled.

"Sammy? What-" Dean's footsteps pounded up the basement stairs, obviously drawn by the voices, and stopped in the doorway when he saw the old woman. "Ah," he said.

"Give me that," ordered the woman again, and Sam had no choice but to surrender the gun. The woman tsked, and opened it with practice – Sam supposed it wasn't the first time she'd seen one, working in Children's Services. "Salt!" she exclaimed. "Well how extraordinary." Her eyes went to Dean and back to Sam. "You must be new."

"Yes Ma'am," said Sam meekly. "We're sorry. It's just, I couldn't sleep, and I thought I heard sounds from down here, so I got my brother to come check it out with me. I was scared." He made his eyes big, dark and sad, hung his head a little – Dean wasn't the only one who could play to an audience.

"Well," said the old woman. "I'll have to confiscate _this_. Now go back to bed. This is the small children's place. Go."

"We were just leaving," Dean smiled his most charming smile and grabbed Sam's wrist, hurrying him out of the school room. Sam expected the old woman to follow them up to their bedroom and make sure they went to bed, but she turned away at the bottom of the staircase.

"Weird," Sam muttered.

"You can say that again," Dean said, staring straight ahead, and Sam followed his eyes to the lounge they had passed on their way downstairs.

The warden was still watching _Happy Days_, and had moved enough for Sam to see it was a man in his thirties.

"There could be two," Sam offered as they closed the door of their bedroom behind them. "They wouldn't leave one guy here on his own at night."

"Patience is on the girls' wing," Dean said shortly. "I checked the staff roster on the board in the TV room."

"Oh," Sam should have thought of that. "So what, we got two ghosts on our hands?"  
>"That wasn't a ghost. She touched the salt."<p>

"Right." Where was his head at?

"Hey. You okay?"

"Dean I – I think I saw the clown kid. Just for a split second, whilst you were down in the basement, but when I turned the light back on it, it was gone."

"Hm." Dean sat down hard on Sam's bunk. "Okay. So it probably hangs out around the schoolroom. First thing we look for tomorrow is any record of kids who died on the property."

"Shouldn't we um – shouldn't we report the woman?" Sam sat down next to Dean, close enough for their legs to just touch but not close enough to be pathetic.

"Hell no. We should find her and question her. She obviously knows something about something."

"She didn't seem that open to questioning."

"We'll catch her in the daytime."

"Yeah. Okay." Sam breathed out and let his shoulders sag a little.

"Get some sleep," Dean said and punched his shoulder as he got up. Sam watched his silhouette as bent to run a line of salt across their doorway.


	5. Chapter 5

They meant to head right to the library after breakfast, but a commotion stopped them.

"Ms. Harper! Ms. Harper!" shouted Kayla, running into the canteen. "That lady's here again..."

Lori stood up abruptly and said, "Thank you Kayla. Go and get your breakfast." Then, to Dave who was also on duty, "Call the police."

"Really?" said Dave. "Shouldn't we just-"

"She's been warned," Lori snapped and strode towards the doorway. The old woman met her there, coming in from the other corridor.

"Lori," she said, as though they were friendly acquaintances.

"How did you get in?" Lori demanded. In the cold light of day, the old woman was nothing very impressive – Sam still looked a little freaked, Dean noted, but then she had snuck up on him the dark, and she still had his gun. Now she looked small – shrunken, eyes obscured and mole-like behind her thick glasses.

"Why the front door of course," said the old woman in response to Lori's question.

"Come with me," said Lori, taking her by one withered arm in a grip that looked hard enough to damage. Dean made a fast decision.

"Aunt Martha!" he exclaimed, standing up.

"Oh…you again," said the old woman heavily. "Are you going to be trouble?"

"Sorry everyone," said Dean charmingly. "This is mine and Jack's Great Aunt Martha. She's uh, confused. There's no need to call the police, really. It's just she heard we were coming here and I guess she thought she had to come check out the place." He shrugged apologetically, then gestured for Sam to follow him with a tilt of his head. He went over to Lori, and Sam followed two paces behind him. "Let us talk to her," he said to Lori.

"Well – alright, under supervision," said Lori, catching on immediately.

"You want me to…?" Dave asked, clearly uncomfortable.

"I'll handle it," said Lori firmly, and Dave looked relieved, and went back to his bowl of rice puffs and conversation with a ten-year-old.

"You know her?" Lori asked Dean, once the four had crossed the corridor and sat down in the lounge.

"No," said Dean. "I was lying. Do you?"

"No! This is the third time she's turned up here."

"Fourth."

"Sorry?"

"She was here last night," Sam and Dean exchanged a look. The old woman appeared not to hear them: she was staring off into space and humming a little.

"We have no idea how she gets in, we get her out but we can't make her stay away," said Lori. "I didn't want to call the police at first, because she's obviously not - all there - but this can't go on."

"Don't talk over people," said the old woman sharply. "It's rude."

"Who are you?" Sam spoke up suddenly. "Why did you sneak up on me last night?"

"Because it was long past lights out, of course, and you should have been in bed."

"Where do you live?" Lori asked. "Why do you keep coming here?"

"You would know," the old woman fixed her with a hard look: "You of all people."

"What's ithat/i supposed to mean?"

The old woman lapsed back into humming. It was starting to make Dean a little nervous – he always did better with ghosts and monsters than regular human crazy. He decided to go for the good cop angle.

"Um, excuse me, Ma'am? We were wondering if you knew anything about a boy in clown mask."

"I know all the children who live here."

"Yeah but – he's a little kid, and he always wears this mask…do you know him him?"

And he saw it. Dean had been trained his whole life to watch people as closely as he would read the signs of a haunting: Dad always said a living witness could make or break a case. The tell-tale flash of comprehension slid across the woman's face, and even the thick glasses couldn't conceal the recognition in her eyes. Very quickly she looked away, disengaged, and said,

"Well, that's me done for the day," stood up and dusted of her skirt with surprisingly brisk movements.

"I still think we should call the police," Lori said.

"Don't," said Sam quickly. "She could still be our best lead."

"Then we should keep her here," Lori said.

"If she can get in she can definitely get out."

"Oh, I can do all sorts of things," agreed the old woman. "I was a seamstress in my youth, and later I learned the electric typewriter. I'll see you soon, Lori. You boys stay out of trouble."

"I'll walk her to the gates," said Lori grimly, "Make sure she leaves."

"She's faking it," Dean said to Sam the minute they were alone.

"What?"

"She ain't crazy. At least, not as crazy as she's pretending. She knows the ghost and she isn't talking about it."

Sam looked troubled. Dean wanted to reassure him, but didn't really have anything to offer. "The plot thickens," he remarked instead, and messed Sam's hair up again. Sam glared at him, pissed off but distracted from the immediate danger. Dean grinned. It was too easy. "Someday all that hair's gonna get in your eyes when you're trying to aim a pistol. You should just get a buzz cut," he told Sam. "I'll even do it."

"Try it and die," Sam said, and for a second sounded like a normal teenager.

"Maybe I'll cut it in your sleep," Dean teased. For a second Sam looked genuinely alarmed, then rolled his eyes and punched Dean in the arm.

"So, library," he said.

"Breakfast first," said Dean. There was no point in turning down food when it was available. Sam sighed long-sufferingly, but accompanied him back to the canteen, where Dean fielded questions casually about their crazy Aunt Martha, winging a grizzly story of how she'd found her late husband hanging from a ceiling fan in his office back in 73, and had never been the same since.

"How sad," said Ella, and sighed dramatically. "You're very patient with her." She gave him a hopeful look with an edge of calculation and Dean tamped down a twinge of regret. If they'd met anytime when he didn't have total responsibility for hunt, he'd be there so fast, but this time it just wasn't gonna happen. Contrary to what Dad and Bobby thought, he could, when strictly necessary, control himself, and keeping half an eye on Sam's bent head and private, troubled little frown, the protectiveness that had been a part of him for as long as he could remember swelled strongly in his chest. When this was over, ghost gone and Sam safe, he would go out and get drunk and get laid. But it could wait. He could wait.

They got directions to the library from Dave, who looked surprised and pleased by their request, and attempted to engage them in a discussion of books which cut short.

"You'll want to be back this afternoon, we're putting the Christmas decorations up," he advised them.

"Wouldn't want to miss that," yelled Leroy sarcastically, and Dave turned to reprimand him. Sam and Dean set out on foot - their breath made white mist in the morning air, and Sam's nose was red above his thrift-store scarf. The library was an ugly one-story building set in a concrete parking lot.

The clerk was a motherly type, so Dean sent Sam to ask about the newspaper archives. As they always did, she practically fell over herself to assist the puppy-eyed, skinny, over-polite kid, and Dean had a moment of sadness that Sam couldn't be what they thought he was, at what they'd do if they knew that his brother had already killed, stitched Dean's skin together, and been medicinally dosed with a mixture of whiskey and codeine. He shrugged it off. Sam was in his element with the grainy files of microfiche, and Dean forced himself to pay attention as they scrolled through page after page. It was slow, arduous going, with occasional reprieve by a stupid or weird story from decades ago. The Home was mentioned several times but in little detail: when it opened in 1921, major charity donations, and a short piece about a kitchen fire in the 1950s which had both of them at the alert, but the story explicitly stated no deaths and just minor burns a couple of staff members. Dean's attention was just starting to flag, his mind wandering down more interesting paths, when Sam said,

"There," with firm satisfaction.

"What?" Dean squinted. A grainy-black and white photograph under the headline, _'St. Francis's Celebrates 50-year Anniversary_'. It was a posed group shot of staff and children: girls in dresses and tunics, boys in shirts and trousers, the adults – all women – in skirts and blouses, smiling into the camera.

"That woman," Sam said, directing his attention to the adult on the far right. The face was decades younger, the posture less stooped, but the coke-bottle glasses were the same, and the thin line of the mouth. "Guess we've found our intruder. And we have a name….Mrs. Ingrid Wertheimer," he traced the caption with one finger.

"But she's not a ghost," Dean reiterated, keeping his voice low. "And what about the kid in the clown costume?"

"The records end here," Sam said, frowning. "Bit of a co-incidence?"

"It could be," Dean said. Sometimes the answers on a hunt didn't just fall into your lap.

"I'll ask where else we can find some," said Sam, and went back to the desk. He returned a few moments later and said,

"Town hall. They got archives of some local press."

"Cool. But we'll go back for lunch first."

"Why?" Sam asked. "Dad left you money, right? Can't we just grab something when we get hungry?"

Dean paused. Dad had left cash, but not a lot, and he didn't like using when they didn't absolutely have to. You never knew. "Couple hours won't make any difference," he said to Sam. "It's taco day. We can't miss tacos, Sammy!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "All you think about is food."

"Yeah well," Dean shrugged. "Maybe that's why I'm stronger than you."

"Maybe that's why you're gonna get fat." Sam poked his flat stomach.

"Never!" Dean declared. "This is pure muscle, baby." And flexed his arm to demonstrate. The librarian shot them a look as though she wanted to tell them to be quiet, but the corner of her mouth was trying to quirk upwards, and besides, they were the only patrons.

"Alright," Sam conceded. "If you must have tacos."

They bundled back into their coats again and braved the December air.

TBC.


	6. Chapter 6

The town hall was closed. Holidays meant half-day opening, which in turn meant they had nothing to do but return to the Home and endure Christmas decorating.

"You're back!" exclaimed Dave happily. He was standing in the doorway between the TV lounge and the corridor, a strand of tinsel over his shoulder and a toddler attached to his side.

"Come and join in."

"Er, thanks," said Sam. "But I think we'll just go crash in our room."

"Oh come on guys, I think it would be good for you," Dave said earnestly. "Help you acclimatize a bit. There's a big box of decorations on the counter in the canteen – everybody's helping."

Sam could see Dean was about to concede, and he groaned internally. But strenuous objection would only get them unnecessary attention, with staff trying to draw them out and make them more involved with group activities and whatever the hell else. So he found himself, several minutes later, standing on a chair in the canteen helping a kid named Tony string up some tinsel and trying not to let his cynicism show on his face. Behind the counter, Dean was hanging paper lanterns and flirting casually with Ella.

"So, this is lame," Tony said, even as he applied blu-tac with meticulous concentration.

Sam didn't know how to answer. Tony was a boy of about Sam's real age, with a long face and serious manner.

"You done Christmas before?" Tony asked.

"Not really," Sam found himself saying.

"Me either. Before I came here, I mean."

"Yeah?" Sam knew it was best not to get involved. But it was rare that he got to talk to somebody his age without outright lying, and most of the kids he did meet were so sickeningly normal that their inane concerns made him feel worse, or annoyed him.

"My old man drank the money," Tony said. "Also the food money, bill money…you get the picture."

"That's rough, dude," Sam said, vaguely guilty all of a sudden. Dad had rarely done anything for Christmas, sure, and sometimes he spent the day drinking, but he'd never chosen booze over feeding Dean and Sam. A few times in their lives they had gone to bed hungry, but those were the times they literally had no money, and Dad had always figured something out for the next day. 'You couldn't raise soldiers without feeding them,' thought his inner cynic.

"Well it ain't so bad," Tony went on. "He never beat shit out of me or anything like Leroy's stepfather did him. Just couldn't raise a kid. And you? How'd you end up inside?"

Sam hid a grin. He made it sound like jail. "Uh, our folks died when we were little," he carefully recalled the details of their fake story. It had to be something convincing, but not so awful everyone would expect him and Dean to be totally insane. "And our grandma took care of us. But now she's too old and sick."

"Huh," Tony said. "How come your brother doesn't just look out for you? He could pretend to be eighteen, easy."

Sam bristled a little, even though Tony was talking to Jack and not Sam, technically. "He does look out for me," he retorted. "CPS already knew about us so he couldn't lie about his age."

They were interrupted by a throaty laugh, and Sam looked across to see Ella with her hand on Dean's arm, smiling widely.

"She's trouble," Tony said. "Tell your brother."

Sam didn't say anything, but his scepticism must have shown on his face, because Tony elaborated:

"All women are. Sure they look sweet and they talk sweet but they'll take your money and screw you over in the end. That's what did my old man in." As though Sam couldn't have guessed.

"I think my brother can handle himself," he said dryly. Dean never took anyone's money, but Sam guessed that from the perspective of a string of girls, his brother was the one doing the screwing over. There'd been an incident a few months back, they'd been staying in Michigan, and Dean had gone out with the same girl maybe six or eight times, and when he broke up with her she turned up at the house, crying, saying 'I thought you loved me'. Sam had no choice but to lock himself in the bathroom and listen as Dean tried to console her with lines he'd learned from the movies: "Baby, you're too good for me, any guy would be lucky to have you, I got to leave, family stuff, but you'll find someone better, etc., etc." Sometimes Sam wondered if Dean even knew whether he was sorry to leave them.

"Hey homos, what's up?" said a voice beyond them.

"Fuck you, Leroy," said Tony, without any real heat behind it. Leroy casually kicked the chair Sam was standing on, and Sam had to jump off quickly to avoid falling on top of it as it tipped over. The clatter had Dean up in Leroy's face and grabbing the front of his shirt before the echo had even subsided.

"There a problem here?" Dean asked.

"Don't touch me." Leroy shoved Dean to avail: Dean didn't move an inch.

"You okay?" Dean asked Sam.

"Fine," Sam rolled his eyes. Like a two-foot drop was gonna kill him.

"Stay away from him," Dean ordered Leroy. "You think you're pretty tough, but believe me, you lay one finger on my little brother and I will show you how tough you really are."

"Alright, Jesus!" Leroy yelped. "Take a joke, why don't you?"

"Dean," said Sam wearily.

"Call your dog off," Leroy said to Sam.

"What's going on?" Dave appeared in the doorway, trying to look authoritative and folding his arms across his chest. "Do I have to get security in here?"

"No sir," said Sam quickly, and Dean released Leroy grudgingly – they glowered at each other but restrained themselves.

"You two are on time-outs," Dave said to Dean and Leroy.

"We're what?" Dean practically squawked. "What is this, kindergarten?"

"We have very strict rules about fighting," Dave said. "Go to your rooms." Then he appeared to relent: "For half an hour. Jack and Tony, you guys come with me. I could use some help with the tree in reception. Ella, you…" evidently he was out of ideas.

"I'll just finish up here," Ella said dryly.

"You do that," said Dave.

"Seriously, Sammy, the little punk is asking for it," Dean said that night.

"Let it go, Dean," Sam said. "It was just a chair. Besides he…"

"He what?"

"He's had it rough."

"And we haven't?" It was very rare for Dean to complain about their lives.

"I'll just – avoid him," Sam said.

"Yeah, whatever." Dean grumbled. "This place is the size of an ant farm."

"It's not like I couldn't kick his ass if it came to that."

Someone screamed. It was male, young and terrified. Their eyes met, Dean grabbed his gun,  
>stuffed it into his jeans and they dashed in the direction of the sound. Leroy was standing in the canteen, wide-eyed and frozen, and in his tatty pyjamas he looked smaller. Younger. His scream and drawn Patience, Lori and the night guard from the boys' wing – a couple of the<br>older kids had also run down, and Patience was carrying a toddler.

"What, Leroy?" Patience exclaimed. He appeared completely unharmed.

"This place is fucking haunted, that's what!" Leroy shouted.

"Excuse me? Language!"

"There. Are. Ghosts. Here," Leroy enunciated.

"What do you mean?" demanded Lori.

"I came down to get a drink. I couldn't sleep, alright? So I went to the refrigerator and got a coke, and when I turned round, that table" he stabbed with a finger at one of the long tables in the middle of the room, "had five kids sitting there. Goddam ghost kids. All old-style and grey and see-through. And they like, looked at me. I heard one of them laugh. Then they like totally disappeared!"

"You had a nightmare," said Patience.

"Fuck that."

"I'll take him back," said the male warden. "Kids, go back to bed."

"I did not have a goddam nightmare!" Leroy bellowed.

"Let me talk to him," Lori said quickly.

"I think Lucas can handle this," Patience's tone brooked no argument. "Everyone back to bed!"

Sam stared at Leroy. He was sheet-white, disbelieving, the look Sam had seen a million times on a million first-time witnesses. He shared a meaningful look with Dean, and then one with Lori. Looked like they wouldn't be avoiding Leroy after all.

And damn it, wasn't one ghost enough?


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: This is probs the only update I can do this week – busy few days ahead. Rest assured though, it'll get done – I've planned the ending.

* * *

><p>"Alright, what do you know?"<p>

"Well well well, if it isn't Steve McQueen." Dean probably shouldn't be mocking now that Leroy was an official witness, but the expression on the kid's face was just too much to take seriously – half furious and half terrified, he stood in their doorway with his jean jacket on over his pyjamas and his feet jammed into ratty trainers.

"You know something," Leroy insisted. "You weren't even surprised when I said I saw ghosts. You looked ati_him_," Leroy jerked his chin in Sam's direction, "Like you practically expected it. And you know that freaky old lady. What the i_hell_ is going on around here?"

"Alright, shut up," said Dean long-sufferingly. "Get inside before the night warden catches you." He grabbed Leroy by one shoulder and jerked him inside, then closed the door quietly behind him. "Sit." Dean pointed to the floor. Leroy sat. Sam was trying to look like he was above it all, but Dean could see him smiling a little. Kid needed to learn to have fun with the job.

"Fact number one," Dean instructed Leroy: "_We_-" he gestured to Sam and himself, "Are the experts here. You are the scared-shitless witness. That means we  
>are asking the questions and you are doing the answering."<p>

Leroy glared sullenly but nodded.

"Alright then," Dean softened slightly. "You just remember that, and maybe we'll all get out of this with a story to tell the grandkids. Fact number two: ghosts are real."

Leroy paled slightly and swallowed. "Like – ghosts - as in – ghosts?"

"As in ghosts," Sam said from his place on the bottom bunk. "And me and my brother….well, we know something about ghosts. As in, how to get rid of them."

"As in the ghosts of dead people?"

Dean groaned internally. If he had a dollar for every time he'd had this conversation. And it was usually at the worst possible time.

"Yes," Sam said patiently. "As in, when people die, usually by violence, sometimes their spirits don't move on. Sometimes they want revenge. Sometimes to say sorry. Sometimes they can't bear to leave a loved one behind. Sometimes we don't know why they stay, and I don't think they know either. And…it's happened here," he shrugged.

"Holy shit," said Leroy despairingly. "Fuck my life."

"Hey," said Sam, soft touch that he was. "It's gonna be okay. Just tell us what you saw, exactly."

"I already _did_. There were four kids sitting at the table. Like, flickering. Dressed in old-style clothes. They were grey," he added.

"How old?" Dean asked.

"I don't know, young. Like, not teenagers."

"Where any of them wearing a clown mask?"

Leroy looked at Dean incredulously. "A _clown mask_?"

"I'll take that as a no."

"So that's five ghosts minimum," Sam mused.

"There's _another one_?"

"The one we originally came here to hunt," Sam clarified.

"To _hunt_? What are you, like the Ghostbusters?"

"Ghostbusters," Dean snorted. "D'you see any vacuum cleaners around here? We're more like Mulder and Scully. I'm Mulder," he clarified: "But more badass."

"This is fucked up," Leroy moaned.

"So, what else?" Sam asked impatiently. He was tapping a pen impatiently on his notebook.

"They were sat like, like they were waiting for food. There were plates in front of them, and before they saw me, they were looking up like there was someone standing at the end of the table about to feed them."

Sam scribbled in his notebook.

"Th- that's not all," Leroy said. "I – didn't believe her…."

"But?"

"Ella said – I thought she was messing around, but earlier – I guess it was yesterday now – yesterday Ella said in the night she heard children crying. Saying 'help us, we're sick'. It was coming from the storage room in the girls' corridor. So she opened it, but there was nothing there. I thought – thought she was screwing with me."

"So," Dean said. "A bunch of kids died of some sickness on the property. No doubt the storage room was like an infirmary or something. And they haven't moved on."

"Why?"

"Dunno. Don't really care. It's sad, sure, but they don't belong here, and they could be dangerous."

"No shit! So what do you – how do you get rid of them?"

Sam looked at Dean. Dean shrugged – Leroy already knew about ghosts, whatever else he learned probably couldn't hurt at this point.

"When the town hall opens," Sam said, "We'll check the old papers and any records of the Home. We find out where they were buried, dig them up, pour salt on their remains and burn them."

"D – dig them up?"

"Dynamite is hard to get hold of," Dean said. "Look, kid, go back to bed. It's still like four hours till breakfast. Me and my brother will handle it from here, and we'll – let you know when it's taken care of."

"I still say you're goddam crazy," Leroy said, scrambling to his feet.

"You wouldn't be the first."

Leroy's eyes darted back and forth between them, then he opened the door and darted for the relative safety of his bedroom.

"What a little punk," Dean remarked.

"His stepfather beat him," Sam said quietly.

Dean stopped short. "Huh. That's – that sucks."

"Yeah."

"Still no reason to act like an asshole to innocent people who are only here to protect his sorry ass," he looked at Sam meaningfully. "Well, I'm taking my own advice. Goin' back to bed."

"Kay," Sam curled up on his bunk, drawing his long legs under him and turned to face the wall. Dean climbed into his own bed.

"Hey Dean," said Sam after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"You got your gun?"

"Right under m'pillow, as always."

Sam sighed. "I miss my gun."

For an instant, Dean had the crazy idea of letting Sam sleep with his own gun so the kid would feel better, but Dean was the faster shot, so rationally they were both safer if he kept it. It wasn't like anything was gonna get near Sam without him knowing about it.

"We'll get it back," he said instead.

"I hope so. Even if it is salt, the idea of that crazy old lady wandering around with a .38 freaks me out a little."

"Why Sammy," Dean chuckled. "That wasn't very PC, for you."

"Shut up. 'Time is it?"

"Three-forty."

"Alright I'm going to sleep."

"Go to sleep then."

Dean smiled to himself at the obvious sound of Sam pulling his pillow over his head.

The front desk of the town hall was manned by an older guy, but the records room itself had just a college kid who was probably home for Christmas. He seemed perfectly happy to ignore Sam and Dean, busy perusing a skin mag badly masked by a textbook on European history. Now they confined their search to the papers around the late sixties and early seventies. The records were incomplete, and Dean supressed his frustration that he just knew they were missing something.

"Someday all this stuff will be on the internet," Sam said.

"How?" said Dean irritably.

"Because people will have uploaded it. That _is_the point of the internet, you know. Storing and sharing information."

"Well it ain't gonna help us, is it? You think Dad can afford the internet? We don't even have a phoneline."

"You'll be able to use it from libraries and stuff. Anywhere there's computers."

"Yeah whatever. Where'd you read that, _Geekboy Predictions Quarterly_?"

They saw a repeat of the 50th anniversary story, and then, in the second hour, they hit paydirt. A single column, tucked away in the back pages of a December edition of the Beecham County Gazette, read:

_**Four die at St. Francis: Mysterious Illness at Children's Home Proves Fatal.**  
><strong>Home Worker Arrested on Suspicion of Negligence.<strong>_

_Four children, all wards of the State, died yesterday evening at St. Francis Children's Home on Seventh Street. It is understood that whilst the other residents were taken on a Christmas afternoon outing, the four remained under the care of an unnamed worker as they were feeling unwell. The mystery illness progressed rapidly, and by the time the other staff returned in the evening, all four had died. It is unclear why the worker did not call for medical assistance, and the woman, who cannot be named for legal reasons, has been arrested on suspicion of negligence._

_This brings the total of recent deaths at St. Francis to 5, after the drowning of Peter Wertheimer, aged seven, this last fortnight._

"Wertheimer!" Sam exclaimed, at the same time Dean exclaimed,

"Peter!"

They lowered their voices. "_Peter's little house_," Dean recalled rapidly. "That's what Melinda said-"

"What she wanted to show her mother."

"And Wertheimer-"

"Is the woman's name. He was her son!"

"It has to be." Something came back to Dean, unsettling, and he didn't know why it mattered: _You would know_, Ingrid Wertheimer had said to Lori. _You of all people_. "So, what, her kid dies and she goes nuts? Doesn't realise that the kids are getting seriously sick and she needs to call someone?"

"It makes sense," Sam shook his head. "Only…"

"Only what?"

"Help us, we're sick," Sam repeated the words reported by Leroy. "Crazy or not, how could she not understand that? Given that she was with it enough they were letting her back to work?"

"We're assuming it _was _Wertheimer," Dean mused. "The unnamed worker."

"It makes more sense than anything else," Sam replied. Then: "Oh. Dean, shit."

"What, what is it?" Dean squinted at the tiny print, trying to follow the line of Sam's finger.

"Whatever we're gonna do about this, we'd better do it soon," Sam said. "Look at the date on this paper."

"December 22nd," Dean said. "That's tomorrow."

"So _tonight _is the anniversary of their deaths," Sam said. "The one night when ghosts are strongest, most able to cross over and take revenge…"

"Aaand they're not always particular about who they take revenge on. Okay," Dean closed the paper. "There's no time to spend all day looking for info about where those kids are buried, and possibly coming up empty-handed. We got to get everyone out of the Home. This afternoon."

"_How_?"

Dean thought for a long moment. He stared at the paper. He closed his eyes, rubbed them and stared at the paper again.

"Sammy," he said, and clapped his brother on the shoulder, "We're gonna do what we always do when we're up a creek and Dad left us the cell phone. Call Bobby."

TBC.


	8. Chapter 8

"They're here," Sam said from his place at the window. A white van was pulling into the parking lot, and he could vaguely make out the silhouette in the driver's seat. "That's Rufus Turner, right?"

"Right," agreed Dean, watching the older Black man get out of the truck and a wiry dark-haired woman get out on the far side. "So that must be Al – huh, I thought Al was a dude."

"You would," Sam said. "Come on, we should meet them."

"Dean Winchester," said Turner, striding over to shake his hand. He was dressed in workman's coveralls, with a badge reading 'Beecham County Emergency Gas Technician' above a logo that he must have knocked up on a copy machine just that afternoon. "Well, it's been a while. You don't say this is little Sammy?"

"Hello sir," Sam shook his hand.

Turner chuckled. "You can knock off that sir crap. This is Al, we been working together a couple of cases."

"Alex Cipriano, call me Al," the woman shook their hands – she was dressed in the same manner as Turner and carrying a toolbox. "I met your father a couple of times."

"Oh," Sam said.

"Well don't sound so enthusiastic," Al laughed. "He's a good hunter. I got a lot of respect for him."

"We should go in," Dean glanced back at the building. "Before someone comes out and wants to know what we're doing – wait, scratch that," Lori's car was pulling into the lot. She'd been out all morning and they hadn't gotten a chance to update her on the developments. "This is our ally."

"What's going on?" asked Lori, getting out of the car and wrapping her coat more tightly around herself.

"Had to call for reinforcements," Dean admitted. "It's temporary."

"We have to get everyone out of the Home," said Sam. "Look, Lori, there's more than one ghost here. There are at least four in addition to the clown kid. The clown kid is the old woman's son – was her son – and he drowned here, somehow, on the site. He's Peter. Anyway, there are four other ghosts. Kids who died _tonight_, I mean, this is their anniversary. Ghosts are most able to pierce the veil on the anniversary of their death. We think the old woman – her name's Ingrid Wertheimer – we think she's responsible for their deaths, and they're gonna come back for vengeance."

"What?" Lori looked like she wanted to sit down. "Sam – how did you find out all this?"

"Research," Dean cut in quickly. "Look, we haven't got time to explain it all properly, but we're pretty sure that things are gonna get ugly sometime soon after sundown tonight. So we called our friend – who called his friends-" he gestured to his fellow hunters, who nodded greetings "And they're gonna pose as Emergency Gas Technicians. You have underground cylinders on the grounds, right?" he pointed to the closed grid at the edge of the parking lot, right by the metal railings.

"Yes," Lori said.

"We're gonna say we got calls from concerned citizens, smelled gas as they were walking by the railings," Turner said. "Then we say it's a gas leak, about to go critical, whole thing could blow at any moment, etcetera etcetera. Have to evacuate the area. What would happen in an event like that?

"Well – I guess…" Lori blew out her breath and ran a hand through her hair. "The town has an emergency shelter in the civic center – it was packed out after the hurricane last year, people lost their homes…but it's also a crisis facility. We'd take the kids there,"

"Perfect," Al said.

"And then what will you do?" Lori asked.

"_We_ will be leaving," Turner said. "We're on another hunt, and our own window of opportunity happens to be limited. Only managed to stop by because we were already in the area."

"But-!" Lori exclaimed.

"Look ma'am," said Al, "They might not look it, but these boys do know what they're doing. Their father is something of an expert in this business, and from what I hear, Dean here looks set to follow in his footsteps."

Dean looked surprised, and a pleased expression came over his face which he did his best to disguise.

"We'll be fine," Sam assured her.

"Well – no!" Lori exclaimed. "I'm sorry, I can't leave you to do this – whatever it is – entirely by yourselves. I couldn't. Besides, this is _my child_ we're talking about. If there's even a chance…" she trailed off.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Lori was a civilian, and even the most cool-headed of civilians could be more of a liability than a help on a hunt. On the other hand, she'd proved herself to be brave, intelligent, and adaptable.

"You don't have a choice," she said. "I'm staying."

"Alright," Dean sighed, holding his hands up. "Just – this is dangerous. You could be hurt, or killed."

"I accept that. Look, you're a capable young man – more than capable," she shook her head. "But until and unless you have your own child, you can't understand what it means to be willing to do _anything_ for a person."

Dean held her gaze inscrutably, and Sam felt a weird chill run up his spine. Dean didn't look at him, but he might as well have. "You might be surprised," he said quietly to Lori. Sam coughed and looked at the ground.

"Well, you two should get out of here," Turner said to Sam and Dean. "They aren't gonna just leave you on the premises."

"Then I can claim to be staying behind to stop you when you return, and take you on to the shelter," Lori said. "And anyone else that's out, too."

"Oh crap," Sam said suddenly. "I didn't think of that. What if someone else is out, and they like, turn up in the middle of this?"

"We'll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it," Dean said. "Now come on. You and me are going out for….pizza," he decided abruptly.

"Pizza?" said Sam sceptically. "Shouldn't we be looking into trying to find the gravesite?"

"Can't work on an empty stomach, Sammy," Dean clapped him on the shoulder. "Besides, there's less than three hours till sundown. We'll be back before then," he told Lori.

"Alright," she said, then to Turner and Al, "I'll…take you up to the building."

"We're not signed out," Sam objected as Dean turned him towards the back gates.

"I'll do it," Lori said.

They both looked at her.

"When I first started my own investigation, trying to find Melinda when the cops came up with nothing, I learned to forge signatures," she shrugged.

Dean looked at her with renewed respect, and maybe a little empathy. "It's a life skill," he assured her.

"I bet," she remarked, her mouth quirking. "Now get out of here."

Lori and the older hunters headed for the main building, and Sam and Dean for the gates.


	9. Chapter 9

"When this goes down, you stay behind me," Dean ordered Sam. They were sat across from each other in a small booth in the town's only pizza joint, an Italian mom-and-pop affair with beat-up décor and posters of Al Pacino movies set in cheap frames around the wall. Naturally, the mom in the equation took one look at Sam and sent them over a basket of free garlic bread, with instructions to yell if they needed anything else. Even when Dean had been younger than Sam, he reflected, adults never reacted to ihim/i like that. They had mostly looked vaguely wary, and then from the time he hit sixteen or so, some of the women turned frankly speculative. Well, you used what you had.

"Excuse me?" Sam gave him a scandalized look over his slice of mushroom and green pepper pizza. Mushroom and green pepper, Jesus. Good job the place did half-and-half.

"You don't have a gun," Dean reminded him. "I do,"

"No, but I have an iron blade and a _brain_," said Sam.

"Hey," Dean said, completely serious. "Listen to me. Don't look at the table, look at me." It was Dad's voice, and he felt like a dick for using it, felt the creepiness of the imitation in the back of his mind. "I know you're a good hunter Sam. I know you're smart. But I am older than you, more experienced than you, and this time I have the better weapon. Are you listening?"

For a second, he thought Sam was going to defy him: the thunderous look crossed his face, the one he got right before he and Dad went full-out on each other. Dean hoped 'mom' wasn't looking , or their chances of free dessert were about to evaporate. Then,

"Yeah," Sam said quietly, and the look passed from his eyes. "So the other kids," he went on. "We're assuming they're the 'friends' Melinda was talking about – James, Mary, Louise. It doesn't sound like they wanted to hurt her."

"They could have been tricking her," Dean said. "Or…."

"Or what?"

Dean didn't have much experience with child ghosts. But he'd heard more than he'd seen. "Kid ghosts…" he sighed. "They're – well, they're still kids. Even more so after they're dead. They can be cruel – hell, vicious, - but they don't iplan/i. They're like little pack animals. Instinctual. They could be asking Melinda to play with them one minute, turn on her the next."

"That's just disturbing," Sam said.

"Yeah," Dean said: "Now eat your dinner."

"Don't push it," Sam said.

Dean hid a smile behind the rim of his coke can.

They were back at St. Francis's just as the sun was starting to drop and the sky dull. Lori was at the front gates, waiting for them.

"It worked," she said as they headed inside. "I don't know how you pulled it off, but everyone has gone to the shelter. The staff who were due to come in tonight have been notified, and I just sent a few of the girls on who were out this afternoon. That accounts for them all."

"Well, that's something." Dean filled her in more thoroughly on the information they'd found.

"I had no idea," she shook her head. "It must have been hushed up as far as possible – it ought to be local legend, a tragedy like that."

"You'd be surprised what gets buried," Sam remarked.

"I suppose I would," she said.

"Speaking of buried," Dean put in: "The only way to permanently get rid of ghosts is to burn their remains. It sends them – wherever. Out of this plane, or something. The proper solution is to find out where those kids are buried and burn their bones."

"You mean – open the graves?" Lori asked. "Set _fire_ to them?"

"Not my favourite part of the job," Dean said.

"Liar," Sam muttered.

"But for tonight, there are two things that repel them: salt, and iron. Wertheimer took Sam's gun, which was loaded with salt, but I have one. We both have iron blades. Is there anything you can use to protect yourself?"

Lori thought.

"Some of the older kitchen pans are made out of iron, I think."

"That will have to do," Dean said. "Grab some salt, too."

At that moment, footsteps from the direction of the schoolroom caused them to all turn abruptly in that direction.

"Hello?" Lori called. "You shouldn't be here. Everyone's gone on to the -"

"Is that you, Lori dear?" Wertheimer called up the corridor. "Isn't it quiet tonight?"

"Shit," said Dean, and they ran for the schoolroom. Wertheimer was near the staircase. She was bent over, and appeared to be talking to someone – she straightened up immediately upon seeing them. There was no-one there.

"You boys again," she frowned.

"Look, Ingrid," Dean said, and surprise flashed over her face momentarily. "Yes, we know who you are. And we know what you did. Are you keeping Peter here? Are you summoning him?"

The old woman's face twisted momentarily - either fear or rage.

"He isn't the only one here," Sam said. "The others are here too. James. Mary. Louise. "

"What?" she gasped. She sat down abruptly at one of the table.

"You know what night it is," Dean pressed. He felt almost cruel – the old woman was clearly distressed – but it was they needed her co-operation, for her own good. Outside the sky was darkening rapidly.

"No, no no," said Wertheimer, shaking her head. "I got rid of them. After what they did…"

"What did they do?" Sam asked.

"They killed Peter!" she shouted, suddenly, clenching her withered hands into fists. "They killed Peter, so I punished them! An eye for an eye…"

It came together in Dean's mind, pieces slotting into place. The dining table, the server. _Help us, we're sick._ "You…poisoned them," he said.

"We used to serve at individual tables," Wertheimer said conversationally. "Much more civilized. Those four little evil ones always kept together. I had it from a man who worked in pest control – the arsenic. I only gave it to them."

"What do you mean they killed Peter?" Lori whispered, wide eyed.

"They taunted him," she said bitterly. "Because he was different. You would know," she looked at Lori: "You of all people."

"He had learning difficulties?" Lori asked.

"Backwards," said Wertheimer frankly. "But the sweetest, most gentle child….all he wanted was a friend. But they mocked him. Taunted him. Took his things. One day they…"

"They what?" Dean leaned forwards. Dusk was settling around them now – they were running out of time.

"They took his mask," Wertheimer said. "He wore the little mask to make himself feel better. They threw it around, in the yard – I wasn't there, or I would have stopped them. It must have fallen in the pond. That, or one of them threw it in…no-one helped him."

"And he drowned trying to get it back," Lori said. "That's – that's awful."

"But that doesn't mean you can kill them!" Sam exclaimed.

"Listen," Dean cut in. "There's no time. You know what you did, and believe me, they are going to want revenge. On you, on anyone – on Peter." She was listening. "You have to tell us where the bodies are."

"No bodies," Wertheimer said. "They were cremated."

"Shit," Dean said again. "Okay, what about special objects – toys, clothes, anything that belonged to the kids that their spirits might still be attached to?"

"We didn't have much," Wertheimer said vaguely. "There wasn't much money in those days."

"_Anything_?" Dean pressed a little desperately.

"Each had a toy," Wertheimer said. "A dolly, or a soldier or a teddy. We gave them a toy when they first came here, to help them feel at home."

"And where might those toys be now?" Sam said.

"Why, the bedroom of course," said Wertheimer, then: "Oh." Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened slightly as she stared at something over their shoulder. All three turned around, and there in the doorway, four pale, transparent child ghosts, eyes hollow and cheeks sunken, flickered and appeared again, closer now, advancing into the room.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

Dean drew his pistol and fired. The salt round scattered the ghosts momentarily, but they quickly re-gathered.

"Sam's gun!" he shouted at Wertheimer. "Where is it?" The old woman started to pat her apron a little vaguely.

"Here!" Lori opened a desk drawer, grabbed a box of small magnets, and scattered them over the floor. The ghosts vanished. "Iron," she explained.

Wertheimer produced Sam's gun at last. Dean opened it and emptied the clip.

"Hey!" Sam objected, but Dean used the salt to chalk a thin circle on the ground.

"Stand in that," he directed Wertheimer. "Don't get out, whatever happens." He caught Sam's eye, vaguely conciliatory. Sam huffed. But it was best to keep her out of the way – he had to admit that much.

"The old store room," Dean said, and he and Sam ran for the staircase to the second floor. Lori was right behind them. The store room was crowded with boxes, a stepladder, and an old couch with some of the springs poking through along one wall.

"There!" exclaimed Sam – in one corner, an old trunk with the word TOYS singed into the wood gathered dust. As he opened it, one of the ghosts flickered back into his existence. It was a girl – maybe eight or nine – and her eyes widened as he opened the lid, reaching in excitement for its contents. Her arm went right through him. Sam gasped, overcome with the freezing of pain of it – it felt like an icicle had plunged directly into his chest. He was dimly aware of Dean shouting something, and a clang, and he came back to himself just in time to see the remains of a ragdoll singe and crisp on a copper plate.

"Sammy," Dean was bending over him, holding his face in his hands, looking terrified.

"Okay," Sam wheezed, pushing himself to his feet: lingering cold shuddered through his body, but he didn't appear to have any lasting ill-effects. Dean steadied him.

"You sure?"

"_Yes_," he shoved Dean lightly. "Gettoff me."

"Christ," Dean ran a hand over his face. "Okay. One down, four to go."

"There's nothing else in the trunk," said Lori.

A scream from downstairs resounded. They met each other's eyes and pounded back down the staircase. Two of the ghosts had converged on Wertheimer, creeping close to the edge of the salt circle. By the wall, Peter had flickered into existence, face mostly obscured by the clown mask.

"I have nothing for you!" Wertheimer was wailing at the two ghosts. "Get away!"

Peter's mouth opened in an expression of anguish. He reached backwards towards the wall. Dean fired salt at the ghosts and they dissipated, Peter too.

"Look!" exclaimed Lori. Where Peter had been standing, a crack ran the length of the wooden slats. "It's a panel!" she exclaimed.

"Peter's little house," whispered Wertheimer longingly, and Dean and Sam ran up to move the panel away.

"No – we would have seen it," Lori shook her head.

"It's probably not there all the time," Dean reminded her. Behind the panel was a short, curving wooden staircase, unlit and cobwebbed. Dean put an arm in front of Sam to let him go first, drew his flashlight, and started down the steps.

The stairs curled around to open out onto a basement room. It was larger than one of the bedrooms, but smaller than the communal areas. A wooden desk sized for a child was set along one wall, a chair beneath it. The stone wall behind the desk was covered in drawings, paper curled and yellow with age. The drawings were mostly of childish stick figures, triangles for dresses and smiling circles for heads. One of the figures wore a clown mask.

Boxes were scattered around the room, and dust was thick over everything. Along the far wall was a a single bunk with a curtain drawn across it.

"Oh God," said Lori, and her hand went to her mouth. She took a step towards the bunk, then stopped. "I can't," she said.

"You uh, might want to look the other way," said Dean gruffly and reached for the curtain. He looked at Sam, and Sam shrugged, wide-eyed: no clue. If there was a body down here, not to be delicate – well, they would have smelled it.

"Mama?" said a voice from behind the curtain.

"Melinda!" Lori screamed and ripped the curtain back: a pale, wild-haired teenage girl sat up in the bunk, pushing musty covers down as though she had been sleeping. She looked sickly – as someone who'd lived in the darkness for a long time – but there was no mistaking her for the girl from Lori's photographs. In her arms she clutched a collection of toys: a ratty teddy bear, a second rag-doll and two wooden soldiers. Lori grabbed the girl and clutched her, sobbing.

"Where is Peter?" the girl asked, her voice high and childlike. She blinked over her mother's  
>shoulder, dazed.<p>

At that instant, Peter and the other ghosts flickered into being around the room.

"Burn the toys!" shouted Dean. Thankfully, the floor was stone, and it was a matter of seconds for Sam to gather the toys into a pile – Dean emptied the last from his salt gun on top of them, then sparked his lighter and threw it on top of them. The ancient fluff and cotton went up immediately, and Peter and the remaining girl ghost vanished. Wertheimer screamed. The wood took longer to catch, flames licking and singing the edges of the soldiers as Sam and Dean held their iron blades out in front of them. The boy-ghosts hovered uncertainly, advancing a little on Wertheimer before flickering and retreating. The toy soldiers burned and crumbled, and they vanished too. Wertheimer collapsed, weeping, and Melinda cried out in distress.

"My Peter," sobbed Wertheimer. "You sent him away."

"He was already gone," said Dean.

"You've been here this whole time," Lori whispered to Melinda.

"I was playing with Peter," said Melinda, wide-eyed. She sounded shocked. "His mom looks after us." She stared at Dean. "You broke the toys. You – why did you do that?"

"It's….kind of hard to explain," Dean said. "We had to. Sorry."

"We'll get you new ones," Lori promised, still clutching her daughter. She stared at Wertheimer, uncomprehending: "You took her."

"All he wanted was a friend," Wertheimer said from her heap on the floor, and buried her face in her hands. "You of all people should understand." Then, suddenly, she sprang up, snarling, "Why should you get to keep yours?" and drawing a fine peeling knife from the folds of her apron, launched herself at Melissa. She grabbed the girl, raised the knife, aiming for her throat, and Lori shouted,

"No!" shoving her forcefully back off the bed. The back of Wertheimer's head cracked hard on the stone floor. Her glasses fell off, bent, and a trickle of blood ran from beneath her thin hair. The glazed film of death came immediately over her pale eyes. She lay still.

"Oh," Lori looked like she might be sick.

"You had to," said Dean quickly. "It was an accident."

"What – what are we-…?"

"Sam, go to the kitchen and get more salt," Dean directed quietly. Sam nodded. "There are kilns in the coal bunker, yes?"

Lori nodded.

"You take care of Melinda. We'll salt and burn Wertheimer. She won't come back. You did what you had to do, Lori." He held her gaze for a minute, and something passed between them that Sam couldn't read. He went for the salt.

Sam had seen several things die in his life, and more move on to the next plane. He had never seen a human die though. Never smelled flesh burn. He and Dean stood by the open kiln, lit for the first time in decades, and watched the earthly remains of Ingrid Wertheimer flicker and glow to ash.

"It's sad," Sam said quietly. "She didn't deserve – that."

"You think Melinda did?" Dean snapped.

Pause.

"Besides…" Dean said.

"What?"

"They're together now. Her and Peter. Or, they both don't exist. Whatever. It's for the best."

Pause.

"Yeah," Sam said.

They both stared into the flames.


	11. Chapter 11

Dad called. Dean explained to him what had happened, that he and Sam were both safe. Dad said,

"Good work son. I'll be there within eighteen hours, alright?" He sounded distracted.

"Yes sir," Dean said. He thought Dad ought to say something more about the fact that a woman had died.

Something crashed in the background. The connection crackled.

"Got to go. Call you when I'm close." And the line went dead.

"Bummer," said Ella to Dean, with evident disappointment: "Getting moved the day before Christmas and all. I didn't think anyone was working."

"Yeah, well it turns out we got this…aunt and uncle," Dean fabricated, "That we didn't know about. They just found out about us, and now they want us for Christmas and everything." He shrugged. "You know how it is."

"Not really," said Ella, and for a second, looked younger than her sixteen years.

"But uh, you could come back," Leroy coughed. "I mean if anything else – if you want to. Or whatever."

Ella gave him a strange look. Dean smothered a laugh.

Melinda's return was of course the primary topic of conversation at the Home. After they'd burned Wertheimer, Sam, Dean and Lori had decided that the simplest thing was to say she turned up on her own, wandered through the gates, and wouldn't say anything about where she'd been that they could make sense of. When the sun rose, Peter's basement had been gone again, the wall panel vanished as though it had never been.

"I don't know how I can thank you," Lori shook her head, as they waited in the foyer. Dad had called again to say he was an hour out, and Sam and Dean had packed up their belongings.

"No need," Dean said. "It's what we do."

Melinda was sitting next to Lori, hands folded neatly in her lap. She'd been bathed, her hair combed out, and dressed in pink jeans and a white blouse. She stared flatly at the wall.

"Melinda," Lori put her hand on her daughter's arm: "Aren't you going to say thank you?"

"Thank you," Melinda mimicked her mother's tone, and shot Dean a sideways glance from under her eye-lashes. Dean shifted uncomfortably.

Dad was sporting a bruise on his left cheek and a good few days' worth of stubble. His eyes were red as though he'd been drinking or driving all night. The belligerent look came over Sam's face, and Dean braced himself for the fireworks, but then Sam appeared to change his mind, and got into the backseat without comment.

"All good?" Dad asked casually.

"Yes sir," said Dean.

"You did good," he said. "You too, Sammy. Maybe we'll get you a semi-automatic for next time, huh?"

Dean couldn't help a momentary flash of jealousy – ihe'd/i been sixteen before Dad had bestowed that privilege – but on the other hand, the better Sammy could protect himself on their next hunt, the happier Dean would be. He didn't think he'd ever get the image out his mind of the ghost's hand passing through Sammy's chest, how Sam's eyes had widened in shock and pain, the color draining out of him as he crumpled.

"Hey, how about that?" he said with forced cheer, meeting Sam's gaze in the rearview.

"Yeah," said Sam quietly after a pause. "Cool."

Dad continued to drive in silence.

They had nowhere pressing to be, so they holed up at a motel/service station – surprisingly well-patronised for the time of year – and Dad went straight to the bedroom to sleep off whatever he'd been doing. Sam and Dean crashed in front of the obligatory showing of _iMiracle on 34__th__ Street/i, _and Dean started saying the lines before the characters and changing them to stupid things to amuse himself. Sam didn't crack a smile.

"Hey, what are you so bummed out about?" Dean punched him in the shoulder. "We ganked the ghosts and saved the girl. Score all 'round."

"I guess so," Sam said.

"You know Dad would've…" Dean gestured around himself awkwardly, indicating he supposed their general lack of a Christmas. "If he'd had time…"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm a little old to be waiting on Santa, Dean."

"So? What's the problem?"

"It's just…is it me, or did Melinda seem not all that ecstatic to be rescued?"

"Well, duh, she was probably traumatized. Being held in a basement by a ghost and his mother for sixth months would mess anybody up, leave alone…well, you know."

"I hope she makes some friends," Sam said, with his eyes on the TV.

"She probably will. She'll be a celebrity. You know what kids are like, they think going missing is badass."

"Yeah."

Pause.

"And Lori has her kid back. Winchesters 1, cops 0."

A hint of a smile played at the corner of Sam's mouth.

"You and me," said Dean with a sudden sure feeling. "We're gonna be an awesome team, Sammy. You're getting older. Dad can leave us to do more hunting together now. The Winchester brothers. Between you with your geek brain and me with my badass skills, evil sons of bitches aren't gonna know what hit 'em." Needing to express a rush of affection, he grabbed Sam in a wrestle-hold and messed his hair up. Sam squirmed free and punched him lightly, but he couldn't help the short laugh that escaped him.

"You're such a freak," Sam said without irritation, drawing himself away a little and turning his face to the screen.

The End.

A/N: Well, that's all from me for now folks. I have a Big Bang to work on over at LJ w/ the aid of my awesome and brave beta, but possibly my next endeavour will be some podfic, depending on how research goes. So I probs won't be posting here for a bit, but if anyone's interested, my Livejournal houses the masterlist of my fic, all unlocked, and my username there is reading_is_in. Thanks for the comments and PMs on this, it means a lot. I have absolutely no idea how this turned into a Christmas tale. Probably due to the canonical date of Dean's birthday. Bye!


End file.
